


Small Victories

by bumblybee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, First Meetings, Florist Geno, Hockey Player Sid, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblybee/pseuds/bumblybee
Summary: Sidney goes to the florist for a bouquet, only to leave with a crush.





	Small Victories

**Author's Note:**

> I can write stories that aren't cutesy AUs, I swear. Hopefully the next thing will be a little bit different.

_**Community Spotlight: Florist Big Hit With Pittsburghers** _

 

_If you need flowers, you’ve got a lot of options, including a new addition. Natalia Flowers had its grand opening Tuesday, and Evgeni Malkin, owner, said they had a lot more business their first week than he had expected._

_“I think, we maybe little bit busy first day, have couple orders first week,” Malkin says. “But no—lot of orders, lot of people want to stop and see [the] new shop. I don’t know lot of people here yet, so it’s nice, big surprise for me.”_

_It’s understandable—Malkin immigrated from Russia three years ago, and since then, he’s dreamed of opening a new florist shop._

_“I work with my brother at family shop in Russia,” he explains. “But he’s not come with me to [the] US, so I try to get my English better, try to get flowers to grow here and learn how to have business in Pittsburgh.”_

_Malkin is also one of the few florists in Pittsburgh to actually grow some of his own flowers for his arrangements._

_“I like [to] grow flowers myself,” Malkin says. “Always know they good flowers, because I grow them and work with them at home. They help with rush orders, too—sometimes, order made too soon to do with farm flowers. Sometimes I like [to] grow flowers more than put in arrangement, so it’s nice to [be able to] do this.”_

_When questioned as to the shop’s namesake, Malkin just laughs._

_“Natalia [is] my mother,” he says. “Prettier name than Evgeni—people want to buy flowers from Natalia, not [some] Russian guy called Geno.”_

_Natalia Flowers is open Tuesday through Saturday, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m._

 

* * *

 

Sidney comes across the article as he skims through the paper. He still prefers real newspapers to digital ones, real books to ebooks—there’s something about the feeling of newspaper ink on his fingers that comforts him.

He only realizes it as he turns to the page with the article: he needs something for his mother for her birthday.

He reaches for his phone, because he knows he had put a reminder in it; he always does—but no, there’s no reminder, and the date on his phone matches the one on the newspaper. Tomorrow his mom is flying in, on her birthday of all days, to see Sidney in the first playoff game of the postseason, and he has absolutely nothing to give her.

 _Shit_.

 

* * *

 

The front of Natalia Flowers is more gaudy in full color, the shop’s name spelled out in curly orange neon and the blue three-dimensional flowers big and loud, both a stark contrast against the white of the exterior. Sidney almost wonders if he should just get his mom jewelry instead when someone walks past him and heads inside.

Well. He's here; he might as well go inside and see if there's anything that will work.

The bell on top of the door tinkles when Sidney walks in, and he can see a glimpse of a tall man at the counter, bending over to grab something.

“Hello, welcome to Natalia Flowers, let me know if I’m help,” the man says.

Sidney’s not even sure he knows what exactly he needs help with, to be honest. He likes the bouquet in the front window—blue and yellow and red roses, a big purple ribbon tied around the vase—and he tries to look around the front of the shop for the pre-made bouquets. There’s nothing but example bouquets on tall tables, with large catalogs of floral arrangements and kitschy extras stood up beside them. It’s not a huge shop, with only a few of the tables in front of the main counter, but Sidney had been expecting some sort of refrigerated section at the very least.

“Um, sorry,” Sidney says, walking up to the counter. The man immediately straightens, and Sidney recognizes him from the black-and-white picture in the newspaper—Malkin.

Sidney can tell Malkin recognizes him, too; his eyes grow wide for a moment, then he relaxes into an expression just slightly off from casual.

“How I can help?” The name tag on his green apron reads  _G_ _ENO_  in gold letters, the shop’s logo embroidered on the front of the apron. The details are precise but not perfect, as though someone has stitched it themselves—Sidney briefly wonders if it was Geno, or someone else.

“Do you have any pre-made arrangements?” Sidney eventually says, remembering what he’s there for. “I kind of like the one in the front window—“

“You don’t want,” Geno assures him. “Is already couple days old. We need to change tomorrow.”

“Oh. So… no pre-made bouquets, then?”

“No,” Geno says firmly. “Pre-made bouquet not so great; they die after two days. We do fresh only, custom orders—flowers last longer, look better.”

“Oh,” Sidney says again. His mom is flying in so early that he needs to buy something right now, before all the florists close. He knows his mom will be happy with anything he gets her, and she’ll talk all about how just getting to see him is a gift, but Sidney knows better than that.

He also knows that, even if she never finds out,  _he’ll_  know that he almost forgot. Really, the flowers are more for his own peace of mind than anything else—besides, she’s always saying how Sidney needs something to brighten up his house. If getting her a floral arrangement she can put wherever she wants while she’s here will keep her from talking about it, well, Sidney’s not going to argue.

He explains his situation to Geno, and Geno nods. “What kind of bouquet you want? Big, bright? Light color—pastel, is popular now.”

Sidney shrugs. “Just, you know, something traditional I can give her and put in a vase while she’s visiting. I was thinking roses?”

Geno raises an eyebrow. “She like roses?”

“I mean, it’s what my dad always gets her,” Sidney admits. “I don’t really know any other flowers.”

“Is why you have me,” Geno says proudly. He reaches for a notepad and scribbles something down. “Roses good idea, but little bit boring. Your mama like anyway because my arrangements always best, but is her birthday. She need different flowers, not just roses. What colors she like?”

“Purple,” Sidney says, because that’s something he knows for sure. “And red.”

“Good mama colors.” Geno smiles, and he looks so  _friendly,_ like Geno’s just doing this for a friend and not a customer, that Sidney smiles a little, too. “Most guys come in, don’t even know mama’s favorite colors, just want pink or red. You already do better, even if you like roses too much.”

Sidney can feel his cheeks heat at that, because—yeah, okay, maybe he can be accused of buying roses for every occasion. But Geno’s grinning, his tongue sticking out of his teeth a little, and Sidney’s absolutely certain he’s doing it all on purpose.

“Okay, you want standard bouquet—want vase and note, too?”

“Uh,” Sidney says, still trying to recover. “Sure, yeah.”

“Want to pick vase?” Geno reaches for one of the huge books, and when Sidney starts to feel a little overwhelmed just by looking at it, Geno lets go of a short laugh. “I can pick for you, if is easier. I have best taste, promise.”

“If you don’t mind,” Sidney says, and Geno makes another note on his pad. He shuffles a piece of paper over to Sidney to write his note on, and when Sidney does the standard “Happy birthday, Mom. Love, Sidney,” Geno doesn’t say anything.

“When your mama’s flight get in?” Geno asks.

“Seven.”

Sidney can see the terror of lost sleep on Geno’s face for a split second, but he quickly shifts to professionalism, writing something else down and drawing a bunch of circles around it. “I have ready for you at six tomorrow morning. Is okay, you come at six? Get you to airport at good time.”

“Yeah.” Sidney nods. “You can really do it that quickly?”

“Costs little bit more,” Geno warns, “but yes, I do overnight for you. Grow my own flowers, pick them fresh early tomorrow.” He moves over to the register, typing in the order. It’s not as expensive as Sidney would have expected for a custom rush order, and he gladly pays over the suggested tip price. Geno doesn’t say anything about it, but he smiles the same way he had before, his tongue between his teeth, and he tears off the bottom copy of the sheet he’d been using for his notes, stapling the receipt to it and handing it to Sidney.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Crosby,” Geno says.

Sidney’s standing there like an idiot, and he knows he is, but he can’t get his body to just move. After a silence that is almost awkward, he manages to at least say, “Sid. It’s—call me Sid.”

He watches a few different expressions cross Geno’s face at once, and then Geno settles on another grin.

“See you tomorrow, Sid,” Geno says instead, a little softer.

 

* * *

 

Sidney gets to the florist’s right at six. It’s still dark out, too early for even the sun to be awake, but Sidney’s trying to be positive about the whole thing. He trusts Geno—he’s seen the kinds of arrangements Geno has put together, and they were all beautiful—but he still feels a little nervous, a little jittery, and not necessarily about the flowers.

The lights are on inside the building when he gets there, which calms some of his nerves. Geno’s there, at least; he hasn’t forgotten.

Sidney tries the door, and it’s locked, but Geno jogs out from behind the counter to unlock it and get it open for him.

“Sorry,” he says. He looks exhausted, his eyelids droopy, but he still gives Sidney a smile. “Keep it lock so nobody think we open. Too early for customers.”

“I’m a customer.” It’s too early for a real smile, but Sidney tries.

Geno just shakes his head, his own version of a sleepy smile on his face. “Yes, but you different,” he says, leading Sidney to the counter.

Sidney sees the vase first, made of crystal-clear glass that tapers in slightly at the center like an hourglass. There’s a big bow around the center with a colorful swirled pattern, and the note is on a piece of yellow elastic string, strung around the top.

Geno holds up the bouquet, wrapped in plastic and rubber-banded near the middle and bottom of the stems. The red and purple flowers are the biggest and most numerous, but there are some smaller yellow tulips—Sidney recognizes those—that stand out and really make the bouquet beautiful. Sidney would never have chosen yellow, but it really does all work together, and he knows his mom will love it.

“You take off when you give to her,” Geno tells him, pointing at the plastic. “Just keep rubber bands to hold together. Then, you get home, take off rubber bands and put in vase.” He pauses, looking up at Sidney. “You like vase? I can pick different—“

“I like it,” Sidney says. “It’s—she’ll love it. And the flowers, too.”

“I know she love flowers,” Geno says, grinning again. He drops a couple packets of something—flower food, apparently—inside the vase for later, and then wraps it in a couple sheets of brown wrapping paper before putting it into a box and taping the top shut.

Geno insists on helping Sidney carry everything out to his car, even though he could easily carry both the flowers and the vase himself. He puts the flowers lovingly on the passenger seat, and sets the vase in the back on the floor so it won’t break.

“Thank you,” Sidney says, because he’s not sure he’s said that yet. “They’re really beautiful.”

Geno immediately looks as though he’s going to say something, but then he stops himself. “You welcome,” he says. “Next time, you let me know early, I make you even better bouquet for your mama.”

“I will,” Sidney promises, because he can’t imagine going anywhere else for flowers now. “Really, thank you, Geno.”

“Go, or you late to pick her up and she get mad.” Geno crosses his arms and smiles so big it takes up half his face, his eyes crinkling a little, and if Sidney isn’t already too far gone for him already, he is now. “Good luck at game tonight. You win, I know.”

“Thanks,” Sidney says, but it comes out a little cracked and funny, and he kicks himself a little for it. But Geno’s still looking at him the same way, almost fond, as though he hadn’t just embarrassed himself a little, and Sidney feels a surge of warmth for him.

Geno waves as Sidney pulls out of the parking lot, and when Sidney glances in his rear-view, Geno’s still outside, watching him drive away.

 

* * *

 

Sidney’s mother loves the flowers, of course, and she puts the vase on the kitchen table. They’re so tall that nobody can see across the table, but she refuses to move them.

“Sidney put thought into his flowers instead of just getting roses,” she says. “I want to be able to see them.”

The Penguins win the first two games of the first round, and Sidney’s family flies back to Halifax afterward. When he gets back from the road trip—a win and a loss, respectively, which means another game at home before they’re done—one flower, a yellow tulip, is still alive in its vase, the other flowers wilted and brown. Sidney gets rid of the dead ones, but gives the tulip fresh water, and a little more flower food.

It dies after another day or so, but Sidney feels proud that he managed to keep it alive for that long, and he starts to seriously think about getting some actual plants to look after. At the very least, he figures he should at least go tell Geno how big of a hit the flowers had been—Geno’s shop isn’t too far out of the way, and it’s not like it would take very long to just pop in.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

The shop’s bustling when Sidney shows up about a week after picking up his order. Geno’s passing around notepads from table to table, instructing people on what to take note of as they flip through the catalogs. Sidney can tell when Geno sees him—his eyes go wide, and he beams, raising a hand and motioning toward the counter.

When Sidney manages to maneuver around the other customers to get there, Geno props his elbows up on the counter, leaning forward toward Sidney.

“Sid! Is good to see you. How your mama like the flowers?”

“She loved them,” Sidney says. “That’s, uh. That’s why I came, actually. To tell you.”

“Glad to hear, even if I’m already know she love them.” Geno winks, and even though Sidney  _knows_  it’s not meant to be particularly flirty,  _knows_ that Geno is probably like this with all his clients, it still sets his cheeks on fire.

A client comes up and hands over their pad, and Geno gives Sidney an apologetic look. “Give me one minute,” he says, and goes to add a few notes and ring up the order. He’s just as charming with the client as he is with Sidney, though Sidney notices he only really smiles big when he’s walking back over to him.

“Lot of orders today, wedding season soon.” Geno leans on the counter again. “You need another order? Maybe for sister?”

It takes Sidney a minute to remember—of course Geno knows he has a sister; he’d known who Sidney was the minute Sidney had walked in. He still thinks it’s sweet of Geno to ask, even if he’s probably only trying to get Sidney to spend more money—Sidney’s going to choose to see it as Geno being caring and interested instead.

“Ah, no,” Sidney admits. “I just wanted to thank you.”

Geno seems genuinely surprised by that, but he smiles all the same. “Means a lot, you come all this way to say to me,” he says quietly. “Very nice of you, Sid.”

Sidney shrugs. “Well, I mean, you did a great job. I thought you deserved to know.”

There’s a look on Geno’s face that Sidney can’t quite place, his expression going a little softer, but then his attention is pulled away by another client, and he asks Sidney to wait one moment as he goes to take care of them.

After a few minutes, Sidney feels like he should be doing something with his hands instead of just waiting around like an idiot, and since there’s a catalog nearby on the counter, he decides to flip through it. It looks like one specifically for florists, not customers; the front section is flowers, all different kinds in colors so bright it’s almost painful to look at all at once. Sidney flips to about the halfway point, and instead of flowers, there’s a slew of succulent plants in varying sizes and colors.

“Is new big thing,” Geno says, and Sidney almost jumps when he realizes Geno is standing over him again. “Succulents. Everybody want for housewarming party.”

“They look nice,” Sidney says. Some of them look to be pretty small—manageable, he thinks, and probably not too difficult to care for.

“You need gift for housewarming party?” Geno asks, a little disbelieving.

Sidney shakes his head. “No, no. I was just… kind of thinking about getting some plants for my house, but I want something low maintenance.”

“Succulents not low maintenance,” Geno says. “Everybody think is so, because they small, do good with cactus. But they just like other plants—need water, lot of sun.”

“Which ones are a little easier to care for?” Sidney asks, and Geno turns the book so that it’s facing him.

“These two good,” he says, using his index and pinky fingers to point at two different plants. “Need less sun—they like shade okay sometimes. Put near window, water every week, is fine. This one good, too.” He points at another. “I make lot of pot arrangements with them together—they look good and get along.”

“Pot arrangements?” Sidney asks.

“Is same as flowers, but in pot since they plants.” Geno shrugs. “Easy to do, just have to order plants and make plants look pretty in pot.”

“That should be easy to water,” Sidney says.

Geno reaches for one of the notepads, looking at Sidney carefully. “You want pot arrangement?”

Sidney knows he shouldn’t, knows that he’s probably not going to be able to keep it watered while he’s on the road—but it’ll give him at least one more excuse to see Geno again, and, well…

“Yes,” Sidney says, and Geno beams.

 

* * *

 

The Pens win the first series in six games, and they have a little time to rest up before they have to face the Capitals again. Sidney’s feeling good, confident in his team—they’ve done this enough times before that everyone’s prepared, ready to move on to round three.

Geno leaves a voice message when the arrangement is finished about a week later—Sidney misses the call, and he only gets a chance to replay it once he’s back in his car.

“ _Hey Sid, is Geno. Succulents ready; you can come pick up anytime. Hope you have good game, beat Ovechkin. I know you win._ ”

It makes Sidney smile, and if he happens to listen to the recording more than once, it’s not like anyone will know.

He has to wait four days before he’s back in Pittsburgh and able to pick up his plants, but they have two wins under their belt by then, and Sidney feels like he’s able to tackle just about anything thrown their way at home. He decides to pick up the succulents his first full day back, early enough in the morning that there isn’t a crowd at the shop when he gets there. Geno’s rearranging the catalogs on some of the tables, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows—and Sidney has to tell himself not to look, not to stare, not to notice how big Geno’s hands look, even compared to the thick books he’s holding.

Geno brightens when he sees Sidney, standing up straight.“Sid! Congrats on wins. Here for succulents?”

“Thanks,” Sidney says, and nods. “Yeah, I figured I’d pick them up while I’m here.”

“Glad you come today, I get pot for you.” Geno smiles, then heads toward the back room, the double-swinging door still moving back and forth before he walks back out, the pot in his hands.

The arrangement isn’t nearly as large as Sidney had thought. The pot itself is made of clay, and glazed with a lacquer that looks like a sparkly yellow-gold. There’s stripes on the top and bottom in black paint, and decorative rocks around the plants themselves, which are arranged an inch or so apart.

“They not grow so big, so don’t need too much room,” Geno explains. “Maybe they touch little bit when they grow, but not always. And, uh.” He looks a little bashful then, for the first time since Sidney’s met him, and it tugs at something in Sidney’s chest. “I pick out pot because is Penguins colors, and lacquer look like it sparkle in sun, but if you don’t like—“

“I like it,” Sidney breathes. It’s tacky, the colors are unmistakable—it’s  _perfect_. “I like it a lot.”

Geno hands the pot over for him to inspect, and goes over exactly the kind of sunlight and watering schedule the plants need. Sidney holds the pot up as he listens, and he’s already thinking about where he should put it—maybe in the living room? At least then he’d be reminded to maybe water it when it needs it, and it should get the right amount of sunlight Geno says it needs—

“Sid?” Geno says, and Sidney puts the pot back down.

“Sorry. I was listening, I promise.”

“No, is okay,” Geno says amusedly. He scratches something down on a piece of paper, then hands it to Sidney. “You have question, you call me any time. No big deal.”

Sidney feels a little touched that Geno would trust him with his phone number, even if it’s business-related, and he slips it into his pocket carefully. “Thanks, Geno.”

Once again, Geno insists on taking the pot to Sidney’s car for him, putting it on the flat part of the passenger floorboard and giving the pot a little pat. At about the same time, another car pulls up into the parking lot, and Geno casts the pot a sad look before turning to Sid. “Have to go back inside. Drive careful, don’t break pot.”

“I won’t,” Sid promises, and they both smile, Geno scratching at his arm absentmindedly before closing the passenger side door and waving as he walks back inside the building.

Sidney looks down at his pot of three new charges and sighs.

“What am I going to do with you?”

 

* * *

 

The pot’s first home, on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, is an utter failure. While the plants get the sunlight they need, Sidney forgets to water them the second week—they’re off to Washington again, and they clinch the series in five games. The plants do okay with a later watering, though, and Sidney puts an alarm on his phone that he changes based on what their game schedule looks like.

Its second home is in the living room. He gets a table to put them on near the window—which, he quickly learns, is the wrong window, as it gets only a couple hours of natural sunlight a day; the plants are starting to turn an unpleasant brown, and he has to move them.

The last room he tries is his bedroom, on the nightstand next to his bed, but that only lasts for one night. The stupid pot reminds him of Geno, and he knows himself well enough to determine that that’s not something he needs to be reminded of when he’s trying to go to sleep.

It ends up in the kitchen again, and despite Sidney’s best efforts, the succulents were probably already too far gone, and they start to wither. He knows he’s going to have to tell Geno, if only because he feels guilty about killing the plants Geno had set up for him.

Well, that, and the fact that he hasn’t seen Geno since he picked up the succulents in the first place.

Sidney drops by the shop two games into the third series—a loss and a win—in the morning, when Geno’s not likely to have as many customers. When he gets there, Geno’s sleeping on the counter, his elbow propped up and holding his head. He does sit up and pretend to have been awake when the bell over the door tinkles, and he smiles at Sid the same way he always does.

“Sid! Been a while.”

“I know, sorry. Get any sleep last night?”

“Yes. Just still tired.” Geno yawns. “How the succulents work out?”

Sidney feels a sharp sting of dread. “Ah, well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you—“

“They die?” Geno asks, not the least bit alarmed.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do refunds so late.” Geno shrugs, but he looks as though he feels a little bad. “After so long, is not plant fault they die. Sorry, Sid.”

Sidney blinks. “No! No, I don’t want a refund. I know it was my fault. I just thought you might want to know.”

“Is nice you come tell me.” Geno tilts his head to the side, frowning a little. “You know what problem was?”

“I don’t have great luck with plants,” Sidney admits. “It’s why I don’t have any real plants in my house; they’d either not get enough sun or I wouldn’t be able to water them when I’m on the road.”

“So you want try with succulents?” Geno asks.

Sidney nods, because that’s as close to the truth as he’s going to admit out loud. “Yeah. I thought they’d be easier, since they’re smaller and all in one pot.”

Geno doesn’t look pleased by that. “You tell me this before, I help you find good plants for house—easy ones to take care, not need so much sun.” He walks over to the calendar on the wall behind the counter—it’s the Penguins and Paws one, and Sidney’s a little grateful that he met Geno after his month. Geno points at one date in particular, taps it a couple times with his fingertip.

“Have off day on 24th,” he says. “Is Monday, shop closed, no game for you that day. That work?”

“Work for what?”

“I go, get you good plants, bring to house. We pot, I show you where to put, how to water—easy.”

Logically, it’s a good idea, if Sidney’s honest with himself. At least then the set up should be pretty fool-proof, and he trusts Geno’s judgement; he did say he grows his own flowers, and they’re probably more finicky than regular house plants.

To be honest, though, Sidney really only cares about the fact that he’d get to see Geno outside of the shop for once.

“Maybe get lunch after?” Geno suggests, almost as an afterthought, as though that would be enticing enough to sway Sidney one way or the other. “You can decide on day, don’t have to answer now.”

“Lunch sounds nice,” Sidney says, because even if Geno had asked him to shoot himself to the moon with him, Sidney’s pretty sure his answer would be the same.

Geno’s smile is soft then, but he doesn’t answer, circling the date on his calendar and writing  _SID_  in big letters.

 

* * *

 

The day before game seven of the third series, Geno shows up to help Sidney pot his new plants.

Sidney can hear the shop van from inside the house before it even comes into view. It’s an older Ford, painted white with nice lettering, but it probably hasn’t been ‘new’ since the 80s.

“Sorry is so loud,” Geno says, turning off the engine and hopping out. He’s wearing a v-neck tee, and tight knee-length cutoff shorts. His black cap is backwards on his head, and he’s wearing sunglasses until he hooks one of the glasses arms over his shirt collar. He still looks tired—apparently eleven in the morning is still a little too early for him. “Is good van, just not quiet.”

“It’s okay, I could hear you coming before you got here.” Sidney walks toward the back of the van, where Geno’s opening the doors and climbing up into it

“Got you three plants,” he says. “All good, all can go little bit without water, so is okay if you on longer road trip.” He starts handing them to Sidney, and Sidney sets them out on the grass in front of the house one by one. Geno climbs out of the van after him and starts grabbing bags of potting mix and tossing them onto the grass. His tee is a little tight, and Sidney watches the muscles in his arm flex with each bag until Geno’s dusting his hands off on his shorts.

“Get pots now,” he says, heading for the cab of the van. He grabs two, one in each hand, and Sidney takes the last one, setting them all out on the grass. Geno goes back to the van for a grocery bag, which he also dumps on the grass.

“You watch me,” Geno says, moving to sit down on the grass, and it takes Sidney a moment to realize it’s not an accusation but a suggestion. “We start with big one. You get hose?”

Sidney nods, and heads to the side of the house with the hose, unwinding a length and bringing it over.

Geno reaches for the plastic bag and pulls out shards of broken pots, putting one at the bottom of the largest pot. He opens the bag of potting mix, then tells Sidney to start the water and, a moment later, to stop. He pats the water into the mix until it’s the right consistency, nodding.

“Feel,” he tells Sidney, grabbing his hand and putting it in the mix gently. “Is how it should feel, not so gross, just little bit wet.”

Sidney tries to remember the texture, rubbing it between his fingers. It feels a little like damp dirt—not unpleasant, but also not necessarily something he’d want to stick his hands in, either. 

Geno starts dumping some of the potting mix into the pot, not patting it in too much. He reaches for the plant next, holding the stem between his thumb and pointer before tipping it upside down. It slides out of the container easily, and he loosens some of the roots that have wrapped around the inside of the container before putting it in the pot and adding more potting mix.

“Up to inch below edge,” Geno says, pointing at how much he’d put in. “This guy done. We do next together.”

He points at the smallest plant, and Sidney grabs it and the pot. Geno hands him one of the pot shards—“To keep mix from drain,” he explains—and Sidney puts it in the bottom of the pot. He adds the soil, and Geno helps him pat in the right amount.

When Sidney reaches for the plant and turns it over, it’s a little stuck in its container. Geno puts one hand over Sidney’s, around the stem. Sidney’s heart starts to pound, and he’s almost certain Geno can feel his pulse quicken, but Geno doesn’t say anything, giving the container a little wiggle.

“There he go,” Geno says once it starts to slide out. He doesn’t take his hand away, though, and Sidney looks up at him for the first time. Geno looks away immediately, as though he’s been caught staring, and that just sets Sidney’s face aflame.

“Put in now,” Geno says quietly, his hand sliding away over Sidney’s, and Sidney does as he’s told. They add in extra mix after together, and Geno declares it finished.

He points to the smallest one. “You do yourself. Is test.”

Sidney sighs, reaching for the plant and the pot. “You didn’t tell me there was a test. I would have studied.”

“We just do together!”

Geno sounds so  _offended_  that Sidney honks a laugh, which sets Geno off, too, until Geno’s almost fallen over sideways, arms around his stomach.

“ _Cutest_  laugh,” Geno says, and—that’s not what Sidney had been expecting, but Geno says it like it’s some kind of great revelation, and Sidney almost can’t believe he means it.

“No, no distract with cute laugh,” Geno says, righting himself again, and hearing it a second time only makes Sidney’s heart flutter. “You still have test. Get something wrong, you fail.”

“That’s not fair,” Sidney says. “It should be based on percentage.”

“Is my test. We do my way.”

Sidney rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told. Pot shard, soil, plant, more soil. He looks up at Geno when he’s done, and Geno pretends to inspect it before nodding.

“You pass,” he says. “Big test is how long you keep alive. Show me house now? We find out where to put plants.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Sidney stands, dusting off his clothes, and leads Geno into the house. He’s not sure whether or not he’s supposed to give Geno a tour, but Geno goes exploring on his own, sticking his head into each room.

The more Geno walks around the first floor, the deeper his frown gets. Sidney knows it’s not the greatest-looking house, and that he doesn’t really have much in the way of decoration, but he feels his heart sink a little at the look Geno gives him when he’s done with his walk-through.

“Um,” Sidney says, and Geno turns around, still frowning.

“House wrong,” Geno says. “Not your fault succulents die, Sid, is house. Windows face wrong way. Not enough sunlight.” He points to the windows in the living room. “Kitchen okay, dining room okay. Plants have to go there or by door.” Geno walks past Sidney toward the dining room, nods once, then heads back to the door.

“Big guy here,” he says. “Middle guy in dining room. Little guy in kitchen.”

They go back out for the plants, and Geno brings in what look like saucers, putting them underneath the matching pots.

“Catch water,” he tells Sidney, and Sidney nods.

Once the plants all have their place, Geno goes to the kitchen. “You have measuring cup?”

“Yeah.” Sidney has to dig for it in the cabinet a little more than he though, but he eventually finds it, and Geno fills it up about three-quarters of the way full.

“This much for big guy now, since he just move in,” he tells Sidney, taking it over to the larger plant. He moves the leaves out of the way and waters the plant. “But when he used to new house, you give as much as you think. Soil damp, give less, Soil dry, little bit more.”

He does the same for the smaller plants, too, showing Sidney how much he’s giving them to start and about how much he’ll need to water them on a more regular basis.

“Can do all on same day, easy,” Geno tells him. “They get enough light, so no worry about sun.”

Geno helps him clean up the mess outside, going so far as to find a good place for the potting mix in Sidney’s garage and letting him keep the pot shards.

“Never know, maybe you want more plants later,” Geno says.

“I think the three I have now are plenty,” Sidney laughs.

Then there’s the matter of lunch, and while Sidney had thought Geno would bring it up again, he doesn’t, shifting his weight from foot to foot instead as though he’s actually nervous, which only serves to make Sidney a little nervous, too. Maybe he wants to take the offer back—Sidney can’t really blame him if he does; after all, Sidney’s only paid Geno for picking out the plants and helping him. There isn’t really any reason Geno would want to go out for lunch with him in the first place.

“Sid,” Geno says slowly, “you want get food?”

“Sure,” Sidney says, and Geno shakes his head.

“No, is… not just lunch for florist and client. Not just friend thing.”

Sidney’s quick to put two and two together, but he can’t get his mouth to work and actually say something in response. He can practically hear his own heart pound behind his ears. The flirting in the shop, Geno’s kindness—it makes sense now, and Sidney feels almost like an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

“Is okay you don’t want,” Geno adds. “I get it. Just want to ask, you know?”

“Yes.” Sidney can’t get the word out quickly enough. “Yes, let’s get lunch.”

 

* * *

 

Sidney wakes not to the blaring of an alarm, or the sound of the phone ringing, but to a smattering of soft kisses across his face.

He’s sure he’s dreaming at first. But then he can see the sunlight from the window from behind his eyelids, warm and enticing, and he can feel Geno’s breath against his skin as he lazily moves from kiss to kiss, and he so hopes it’s not a dream.

It’s the best way he’s ever woken up, and he’s ready to spend the rest of the day right here.

When he opens his eyes, Geno places one last kiss on Sidney’s forehead. “Have work today,” Geno says, his voice still rough from sleep. A tuft of his hair is sticking up thanks to the static from his pillow, and it makes him look so sleepy and soft that Sidney feels an intense rush of—of something he’s not sure he’s ready to name just yet.

“Good morning to you, too,” Sidney says, and Geno breaks out into a grin, leaning forward to kiss him properly.

“Morning, Sid.” Geno snakes his arms around Sidney’s waist, pulling him against Geno’s chest and closing his eyes again, as though he’s about to fall asleep.

“Thought you had work,” Sidney says. Geno makes a sound somewhere between a grumble and a loud purr, clinging onto Sidney even more tightly.

Sidney glances at the alarm clock over Geno’s shoulder. 8:35. Geno has 25 minutes to get to the shop before they’re supposed to open. Sidney doesn’t think his heart has ever fallen so quickly.

“Need to stay, reward Cup Champ,” Geno says into his pillow. “No Cup to sleep with, you have to deal with me.”

 _You’re better anyway_ , Sidney thinks, but he keeps that to himself for now.

Geno’s moved on with his attentions, kissing and nibbling at the spot on Sidney’s neck just above where his collar hits. He’d left a mark there a few days ago—fortunately, not on a game day—and it’s gone faint, but Sidney’s sure it’s starting to turn purple again.

“For remember me,” Geno says, smiling like the cat who got the cream and then some.

Sidney just smiles. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything planned for today.”

He watches Geno roll out of bed, his back to Sidney, yawning and stretching in ways that Sidney is absolutely certain is deliberate, just to make him stare.

“Maybe I do for you every morning,” Geno says.

“What, the hickey or—stretching?”

Geno smirks then, going to Sidney’s dresser, and Sidney’s secretly glad that Geno’s back is turned so he can’t see Sidney blush. Geno’s claimed half of one of the drawers, and pulls out a set of his work clothes. He gives Sidney a look, because—okay, yes, Sidney had washed and folded Geno’s clothes, but in his defense, Geno’s been staying at Sidney’s house for the majority of the Final, and all of his things had been dirty.

Besides, there’s no way he’d be able to fit into Sidney’s clothes, and if Sidney had worn Geno’s sweater once around the house before putting in the wash, it isn’t like Geno can tell now that it’s clean.

“Thank you for wash this,” Geno says, as though he’s genuinely surprised, but Sidney just shrugs.

“I was doing laundry the other day, anyway,” he says, purposefully leaving out the fact that he’d done the ironing himself—Geno  _really_  doesn’t need to know that.

Geno dresses right there, slipping on his boxers, his black jeans. He leaves the top three buttons open on his white shirt, and his gold necklace dangles when he reaches down for his sneakers. Sidney doesn’t realize he’s staring,  _again_ , until Geno’s sitting down on his side of the bed, slipping on a pair of socks and tying up his shoes.

The alarm clock says 8:53 when Geno’s done, and he stands at the same time Sidney finally sits up in the bed, his back against the headboard. He feels like he’s being too lazy now, despite the fact that today is supposed to be his lazy day—he’d almost forgotten that Geno had work, and while he wishes Geno would just stay home with him, Sidney knows he can’t ask for that.

Geno leans down then, cupping the side of Sidney’s face in his hand. His thumb skims over Sidney’s cheek, tracing the outline of his cheekbone. Sidney hasn’t been able to shave yet, not after everything from the night before; he’d been too tired to do much besides climb into bed. He’s got a feeling Geno would try to stop him as soon as he touched a razor, anyway.

Before he knows it, Geno’s kissing him, hard, as though they’re not going to see each other for a week. It leaves Sidney breathless, and when Geno pulls away again, his eyes look crazed, as though he’s trying to focus on too many things at once.

“I’m take you out for dinner,” Geno promises, and Sidney watches his eyes start to focus again. “We celebrate right way.”

“You don’t have—“

“I want to do this for you,” Geno says. His hand trails down Sidney’s neck, then rests on his shoulder. “I go home after work, check flowers, get dressed nice. Come back here, we go out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sidney says, because he’s never going to say no to that.

Geno kisses him one more time, a little more sweetly. “I water plants for you on way out,” he says, and heads for the hallway. Sidney allows himself a little more time in bed, watching him go. He can hear the water in the kitchen turn on. A few minutes later, Geno’s van starts up—Sidney’s pretty sure all his neighbors have just woken up now—and he listens as it drives off, puttering louder when Geno speeds up, until it turns the corner and Sidney can’t hear it anymore.

Sidney slips down underneath the covers again. The bed’s still warm where Geno had slept, but not quite warm enough for Sidney to want to move. He rolls over onto his side, facing the opposite direction. The bouquet Geno had given him the night before is still lying on his nightstand, sixteen deep red roses taking up all the extra surface space next to his lamp. Sidney closes his eyes and breathes them in. 


End file.
